


Charlotte Sometimes

by Vulgarweed



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossdressing, Disguise, Genderfluid Character, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: When is a disguise not a disguise? When it's a self-portrait. Sometimes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	Charlotte Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Strampunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strampunch/gifts).



I should have known what I was getting into by now, and yet, I never did. My attention was drawn by a lady at the edge of the crowd. She was tall and slender, dressed in a gown of a rich slate-blue shade that set off her grey eyes; her elaborately styled raven hair tinged with just a few strands of silver. She was slightly painted in the manner of ladies of fashion, with makeup designed to flatter her sharp features and yet - she was a lady of mature years and nothing about her toilette suggested that she wished to appear younger.

"I believe you may be the contact I was supposed to meet here, Madame," I said carefully. It would not do to be too forward, in case she was not. Mistaken identity would be perilous in matters of such delicacy.

"Indeed so," she said, extending her gloved hand in the Continental fashion. "Lady Vernet." She had a slightest hint of a French accent.

As soon as I took her hand in mine and kissed the back of it through the fine satin, I began to suspect, and the sensation that filled me was largely delight, and no small hint of vertigo. Her knowing smile confirmed it, and for a moment I was disgusted with myself for having not immediately known. "At the risk of seeming too forward, perhaps the lady would like to dance?"

"She would indeed," she said. She smelled lightly of jasmine and rosewater - and, it must be said, a hint of tobacco still. A refined blend indeed, possibly Colonial. I am given to understand that the French ladies are more inclined to partake than Englishwomen of refinement.

The thrill that hummed in my skin when I waltzed her out onto the floor was rich and complex like a fine claret. Foremost of all was the pleasure of being able to openly dance with my paramour - although we were not supposed to even know each other, in a public place and in mixed company without too much of a raising of eyebrows. 

Shortly thereafter that was the moment she lightly touched her painted lips to the shell of my ear, and whispered that she had acquired the pilfered plans right from under the treacherous Duke's very nose, and had them concealed in a rather intimate item of clothing, and she would let me make my own discovery later if I wished. And the third was that, although now that I was very aware of Lady Vernet's usual identity, there was something in my mind that stubbornly continued to think of her as a woman - and a most beguiling one at that.

Her slim waist was stiff with corsetry, but not too tightly laced; there was something of the Rational Dress influence that has begun to seep into contemporary fashion. This is a trend that, as a doctor and an appreciator of the feminine form in its natural state, I can only wholeheartedly approve. Lady Vernet was a very modern woman, I had to believe, especially considering her Continental flair.

Her movements were fluid and graceful, and she followed my lead as though she'd been born to it. As though she had attended a finishing school for young ladies, and then continued to practice in the salons of Paris. I was already quite infatuated with her. Although of course I had a head start, having already loved her for years in a different form and under a different name.

"I believe that after this musical number," she whispered (in a voice husky but feminine) "we will have managed to keep up our appearances long enough, and it would be wise to be far away from here when the Duke awakens from his premature nap. You will be relieved to know he only required one kiss, or perhaps, strictly speaking, two, before he was befuddled enough to not notice the unusual taste of his favourite absinthe."

So after the music concluded, she took my hand and we made our discreet exit. The carriage we wanted, with the trustworthy and discreet driver in the pay of the Diogenes Club, awaited, decorated with the blue ribbon we'd agreed on beforehand. We made our triumphant escape. It was a crisp autumn night, and above the golden rays of the gaslights, the moon gazed down in near-fullness, wreathed by writhing silver clouds.

In the cab, as we rode, I took Lady Vernet's hand in mine. Her glove was sleek and shimmery, and yet it caught on my skin a little. "May I?" I asked, before peeling it off. She nodded imperiously, as if this was a ridiculous question. I only wanted to feel that familiar skin. I knew those long fingers well. She rewarded me by lacing them through mine and squeezing. Oh, such lovely fingers. I could not wait until I'd have the chance to suck them in the privacy of Baker Street.

She was reluctant to speak, for understandable reasons. We were certain our driver was well-vetted for espionage at least, but we had other matters between us that lead to higher orders of secrecy.

And she seemed nervous. That might possibly be because my own sense of discretion was too much for her.

So I started out to say one innocuous thing: "You are beautiful, Sher-", and that syllable turned into, "You are beautiful,  _ cherie." _

She squeezed my hand in appreciation.

"It is a most remarkable disguise," I said softly so that we would not be overheard. Honestly, given my druthers, we would have had some mutually-agreed-upon ravishment as we rode.

She smiled then - for all her derision, she did enjoy my compliments, and we both knew that well by now. Then she sat up a little straighter and confided to me, "I'm not sure it entirely  _ is _ a disguise. I think often, I wonder - what makes a man a man, or a woman a woman? The most obvious answer is that it's a matter of anatomy."

"I have certainly made a thorough study of your anatomy," I said with a smile.

"Oh, you have indeed, and I've loved every moment. But let's look beyond the obvious. I am . . . very comfortable in this dress. Far more so than you would be, in my place, I suspect. Far from being a persona that feels alien, I find this role is far more like another aspect of myself, that I feel at home in. In fact, I think..."

Uncharacteristically, she paused for a moment. "...and from all the physical tells that you have, I can't help but deduce that you are currently, in this moment, attracted to me  _ as _ a woman."

"I am attracted to you in any form, because you are you."

"Yes. I am myself. And that remains true no matter what I'm wearing. I have to say, I think . . . not every disguise is a pretense. I feel too much at ease in this role to believe I'm being false. When I am a woman."

I sat back then, still holding that elegant hand in mine, trying to understand what I was being told. Holmes was, always had been, a complex person who was ever pushing me to absorb ideas I had never considered before. I couldn't exactly pretend to understand, not yet. From the sound of it, I was the first confidante to hear this revelation, because the ideas sounded like they were coming from someone who had never dared to give them voice before. (But they also had the flavour of thoughts long nursed.)

Holmes was a deliciously beautiful woman, when she was one, that much I knew. I didn't understand all the complexities, not yet. I wasn't sure I needed to. I only knew that I wanted her, in any way that she would have me.

When we arrived at Baker Street, we hurried up the stairs - our haste was very telling. She was eager and imperious, and the click of her heels on the stairs had none of her usual care and stealth. Normally I would be solicitous of a lady in long skirts and high heels but she was having none of that.

Her kiss was forceful and urgent, and I responded with pure instinct, as an animal recognises its true mate. I tasted her lipstick and smelled her perfume, the sleek fabric of her bodice so smooth against my hands. Perhaps some would say her intensity was unladylike, but I had no desire to judge. I only wanted to experience her in this form, for this was both familiar and wildly new, and therefore profoundly erotic.

Nonetheless, opportunities to treat a lady like one are few and far between in my life these days, so with much of my blood pooling out of my brain, I slid my hands down her back, kissing her long neck and lightly nipping at the shell of her ear. She gave the happiest of little sighs, and then it turned to a deep moan that weakened my knees. She grasped at me to pull me flush against her, and her wiry strength was enticing in a woman of such lithe grace. It pained me to fail to offer her a drink, but perhaps that would come later. Her intentions were made very clear, and I would not be the one to deny her.

I did guide her into the bedroom with my hand on her back, just above the swell of her skirts. I did set the gaslight by the bed to a dim, warm glow that cast golden tones on her skin among her blues and greys.

I regretted that the sheets and bedclothes were in the state one would expect of a bachelor household, specifically that of a bed shared by two male bachelors. Honestly I was rather appalled by how seriously my mind wanted to treat Lady Vernet as a visitor, even though she was having none of it.

The wig had to go, of course. Holmes does enjoy hair-pulling, and the elaborate confection was not actually nailed through the skull, so of course it would be the first casualty. The lady was still rapturously elegant with her short black hair tapering to a tail at the nape of her neck. I kissed and licked that lovely spot while I worked on her buttons. So many buttons, down her back. She shivered as I lowered her gown to the floor, and saw her in her chemise and corset. The corset contained a large and significant piece of paper. I tossed it on the floor - it would be safe in our room until the morning, as dangerous as it was. My love had succeeded in capturing it, and that was wonderful, but neither of us was very interested in it right now.

She tried to reach her hands back - oh, of course she had devised a way to lace it herself. I gently pushed her hands away. I had been married to a lady before, after all.

Her spine seemed to bend towards me as I unlaced her and set her free.

"John," she whispered. "I'd rather like to keep the petticoats, if you don't mind. For now."

Oh heavens. What was I to do?

Exactly what I did, of course. I kissed my way down her back, I savoured the sight of her lean, strong legs dusted lightly with black hair. I reached for the Vaseline on the night stand - just to keep to hand. I twisted her around on her back - a move she wholly participated in - and then pulled away the padding from her chest and spent far more time on her nipples than I thought I ever had before. Her cries, her arching, her pushing made it clear to me that I had nearly brought her to climax before I even touched her cock.

When I entered her, it was with the susurration of skirts around my hips, her legs splayed and eager, her emissions wetting my loins.

Long, long moments later, I rose to help us clean up so that we could sleep well. I brought the water pail and the cleaning flannels.

Holmes had a very different aspect to him then - he was sitting up, his brow furrowed. He looked very much like the man I had known and loved for so long.

Had I done something wrong?

The smile I received when I started to wipe us both down was magnetic and electric. I thought, perhaps, Holmes - Lady Vernet - my love by any name - was simply tired. As was I.

When we were cleaner than we had been, I helped Holmes out of the last of the garments. Together we lay, in our safe sanctum.

Apropos of many things, Holmes murmured to me, "I think that American poet Whitman, the one Wilde loves so much, is overrated. But I do think 'I am large, I contain multitudes' is a very good line."

My eyes and limbs were heavy. I pulled my beloved close to me, and I said, "I love everyone in you."


End file.
